A Rose in Autumn
by stokersisters
Summary: My very first contribution to a Chelsie prompt. I really don't know how to write a summary for this, so please just read and find out.
**Hello, my dear fellow Chelsie shippers! This is my very first response to a Chelsie prompt. It is awfully short, unbetaed, full of mistakes, quick, dirty and not very novel. But I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.**

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 _Prayer is an act of love; words are not needed. Even if sickness distracts from thoughts, all that is needed is the will to love._

(Saint Teresa of Avila)

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 **Downton, September 1929**

The first brown leaves fell down to the ground. In a few weeks' time, the chestnut tree in front of their bedroom window would be bald. Still, it wasn't cold outside yet. There were still a few merles and swallows that hadn't sallied southwards and the roses in their garden were still blossoming. The autumn hadn't chased away the summer, not yet.

Not yet.

The words echoed in his mind.

 _She isn't over it, yet._

These had been the doctor's words.

 _But I think she is out of the woods._

He had said. Two weeks ago.

Charles sighed and stared out of the window. He could see the same things he had seen during those last twenty-two days. Twenty-two horrid, awful days full of fear and worry. He had counted every single one.

She had never been out of the woods. Not then, not now. Maybe ne… No. His wife would make it. Elsie stubborn and she would weather this storm, like she always did.

His eyes wandered back to their bed. Her nightstand full of medicine, her eyes closed, her hair falling over her shoulder in a braid, her eyes closed. Her breath was steady, thank God.

He couldn't bear to lose her. Not now, not ever.

A glance at his wristwatch. Asleep for three hours, no coughing, no nightmares, no shivering. A good sign after the worst night for weeks. He had held her, had felt her cold sweat on his skin. His own chest vibrated when she coughed, but Charles never lost the body contact to his ill wife, the love of his life.

Sometimes he would read to her. Charles preferred Dickens, but she couldn't stand it, so he chose Elizabeth Barrett Browning most of the time. He had never read poetry to her before she fell ill. He should have done it. He should have done so many things.

His Elsie would have laughed out loud had she see his try to cook a broth. He would tell her how he had cut his thumb, how he had managed to burn an egg and why he didn't drink any tea anymore. He had never before poured some of his own. He should have learned it. Charles would tell Elsie these things, one day, maybe. Should she give him the chance …

She would.

There were so many plans they had made, so many dreams they shared.

It wasn't time to leave.

Not yet.

 _Thirty years_ she had said.

 _Thirty_ , not _four_.

Charles leaned back, his hands clutching the armrests.

All he could do now was to wait, to care for her.

To pray.

He never was a very pious man. But since Elsie was ill, he found himself praying more often than ever in his whole life.

He would do _everything_ to help her.

Everything, if only it would help his beloved Elsie.

* * *

"This wasn't necessary, Mrs. Mason."

"'Course it bloody was! Can't see you starving, can I? Now bring that bowl of soup up to your lady before it's as cold as ice. I'll take care of your kitchen."

"Thank you, Mrs. Mason."

She huffed as he took the tray in his hands. No tremors today, thank God.

Beryl hoped deeply that Elsie would eat at least a little bit today. She had to regain her strength, she had. There were too many people who needed Elsie Carson, who needed her badly.

 _It's only a cold, no need to worry._

She had said.

 _She runs a very high fever, Mrs. Mason. I am … I am afraid._

He had said, only a few days later.

 _The flu._

Doctor Clarkson had said.

 _A nasty case._

And then, a week later …

 _Pneumonia_

Beryl shook her head. She had to go on with her work, it wouldn't help Elsie to stare into space. But a clean kitchen was something every woman liked.

She filled the sink with hot, steaming water and looked through the kitchen. A lovely place. There was a high chair at the table. William Bates had grown out of it, but little Louisa Parker fit perfectly.

The Carson's cottage had always been so full of love, full of laughter … but all of it had become silent since Elsie was ill.

Suddenly, something tugged at Beryl's dress.

"Oh, Banfhlath! I am so sorry for not welcome you, my dear."

She leaned down to tickle the black miniature schnauzer behind his ears, the dog loved it so much.

"Your mistress will be well soon, you'll see, sweetheart. She'll be as right as rain in no time."

She wished she could believe her own words.

Beryl remembered the water in the sink and turned around. Work meant distraction and distraction was exactly what she needed.

The redhead scrubbed the pots, the mugs and plates. She whipped the table clean, watered the plants and swept the floor when finally Charles came down the stairs.

"And? Did she eat anything?"

The huge grin on his face already told her what she needed to know.

"She did!" He beamed, tears in his eyes.

"She sat up, held the spoon on her own. She's better, finally. It's not a real breakthrough, but things have started looking up."

 _Finally._

* * *

"Careful, I don't want you to fall over!"

She had to smile at him. It was so terribly cute of her husband just how concerned he was. She had been on the brink of dead, she knew this just too well. But Elsie Carson had been much too stubborn to give up. Her Charlie still needed her and the children … William, Louisa and the other ones who were on their way.

"I won't stumble, my dear. Only a few steps on my own. I lay in this blasted bed for much too long."

Elsie had watched her husband blending the rose bushes for twenty minutes now and she felt safe enough to leave the terrace, to go to him.

Her hands left the handrail of the small stairs that lead to the lawn.

 _Steady now, old girl._

One step after the other.

He watched her, how she walked towards him, her smile radiating. She was so beautiful.

Never again could he bear the thought of losing her.

She was his love, his life, his everything.

 _Slowly._

Doctor Clarkson had said.

 _She'll be fine._

He had said.

And he was right.

Finally.

Charles turned away from her, concentrated on the roses before him. A single one was still blossoming. Despite the weather, the cold, the wind, the rain and the autumn. It was still alive, still blossoming, despite everything. Just like his Elsie.

He cut it off.

"I can't wait for the next spring. We could sit here, right on the lawn, on a blanket, with Anna, Daisy and the children, a little picnic. William will be old enough to teach him cricket by then."

There she stood, next to him, her hand on her shoulder.

She steadied him.

Always.

He turned around to meet her gaze, to look her deep into these blue eyes, that meant the world to him.

"I am so glad that you're still with me."

A single tear rolled down his cheek and he placed a soft, warm kiss on her lips.

"How could you ever think I would leave you alone, my Charlie? We need each other."

They did.

Elsie felt how her husband placed something in her hand.

A single red rose.

"It's nearly as beautiful as you."

She had to bit her bottom lip to keep from crying.

"You're such a softie, Charles Carson." Her voice was quivering.

"But I am _your_ softie, and that makes all the difference."

And with this, he pulled her to him and kissed her passionately.

 _In sickness and in health._

He had said.

And he meant every single word.

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 **How are you doing? What do you think? Is the end too saccharine? Is this whole one-shot crappy? Tell me and leave me a review. Please x3**

 **(I wrote this down in less thlan an hour and I'm not a native speaker, so I already know that it's full of mistakes. Sorry for that.)**


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